The Good Christmas

So, I left you with bated breath awaiting the Christmas Parade.

here they come now

there was a rumor that real deer were involved - not sure about this one

wooden boats are good

kelpie driven boats are better

not everyone wanted to be there

but there's no stopping the Buckland Boot Scooters

Tess and Son showed initiative

 

as did this poor child dragging her float to the petrol station

it had been 3-4 years since the last parade.

Some were prepared to wait.

the Triabunna Christmas Tree, situated between the supermarket and the chemist

The really lovely thing about this event is that it was organised by 'old' Triabunnans, determined to get the parade back for their kids and grandkids.

After the excitement of the Friday night Triabunna Christmas Parade, came the Monday Carols in the Park in Orford.  This is the third year that the fairly recently formed Maria Voices have staged this event.

the weather wasn't perfect

but what did we care (Jac and David actually)?

the show must go on - Good King Wenceslas bosses the page

the Cheryls dress the tree

the Wily One is always The Foxy Fixer.

From then on, domestic pleasures:

Malcolm brought a crayfish for lunch on Thursday

Kyrle brought oysters on Friday

Judy surprised with an astonishing sponge cake on Saturday

Muirlands called for sushi

Taking us to Christmas Eve:

Georgia hailed the fire truck on its lolly run

John contributed a Derwent caught trout

Georgia gave me trout socks

And I nearly forgot, Georgia, Ella, Jill PD and I  joined the Blue Bottles for a Summer Solstice swim.

I have to say that I revere the Summer Solstice but I am sad that the mornings will start later.  I have been waking at about 5.30am, catching birdsong, basking in the rays of the rising sun and spending till about 7.30am floating in reverie.

and just like that

my gooseberries were gone.  I'm pretty sure the blackbirds are the culprits, so I'm in a bind.  They are robbing me and are an introduced species.  I should be ruthless.  But I love blackbirds: to me they are a symbol of 'home' and Steve has always painted one for me wherever we live.

'And just like that' is also the name of the next chapter of Sex and The City, this time featuring SJP and Co. living their NY lives in their fifties.  I watched the entire DVD (from the library) but it didn't grab me, whether that's because my New York adventures were so long ago, or because I can't identify with a widow whose husband leaves $1m to his first wife in his will and the concern is why he left her money.  The insane amount is not commented on.

In my financially impoverished Little Apple life, I have:

• been grateful for friends who send me books like this.  As the lady says, it ain't Shakespeare.  However I've never read a Shakespeare sonnet about an O-Bahn bus and travelling on the O-Bahn in Adelaide is one of life's great pleasures.

• celebrated Cray Season with an indulgent crayfish mornay lunch in the company of Georgia, John and some other mates at The Tandara.
• I have volunteered at the Pop Up Book Shop where I discovered this gem.
  
  
  
  I think Biology as a subject and this book were the most useful things I got from school.

And this ridiculously adolescent alteration took me right back to being in class with CKB, Pearl and Mr Bishop of the nicotine stained fingers.

• I have haunted churches.

Their Majesties and others singing in St Davids Cathedral, Hobart

I couldn't resist the opportunity to see inside the Mt St Canice Church.  For years I was the Director of Mt St Canice Migrant Centre but not once did I have the opportunity to go into the church.  As you can see, I got there early to have a good look around.

I had selected a seat beside the alter thinking this would make me virtually part of Van Diemen's Band, and I was right.  I can't remember what they were playing but it was, as usual, wonderful.

• I've stood at the bus stop at Rosny Park
  
  
  
  and pondered the truth of this.
  
  
  
  Then Steve, Jill PD, other friends and I went to Malcolm's place and saw that it is possibly true.
  
  
  Malcolm is building his dream home on his Triabunna block, starting with 3 dams.
  
  
• I have taken some other photos to demonstrate to you the rural nature of where I live.
  
  
  
  watching haymaking on the far side as I wait for Friends of Triabunna Reserves to arrive for a working bee
  
  walking to Anne's cottage past fields soon to be built on
  
  
• I have attended the annual Memorial Service at Spring Beach

with the casting of flowers on the water

and have sold tickets for the Triabunna Tivoli's latest screening from my caged ticket booth - much to the amusement of some.

And then there's Christmas.

the Community Health Centre has gone all out as usual

and some generational residents have decided it's time to get the Christmas Parade going again.  They've put a huge effort into decorating the streets with The Parade starting at 5pm tonight.

Plus the library has notified me that 5 books I have holds on have arrived.  Now that's Christmas!

about time

Here we go.  Going sort of chronological.

Maria disappeared for some time after the referendum result

As I was walking home one day, it occurred to me that I hadn't shown you this part of the garden.

It is the largest bit of garden that passersby see

but the part I find least attractive to work on.  South facing, it spends the day mostly in shade.

Currently the oven at The Village is out of commission, so Malcolm comes around on Tuesday mornings to bake the bread for the lunch.  After a period of sourdough, he's now experimenting with baguettes.  DELICIOUS.

Here's Kate, our resident poet, delivering her Remembrance Day poem.  She is a gentle and conniving wordsmith.

And to prove that age does weary us, note the difference in the stance of these chaps as they lay their wreath at the cenotaph.  The surrounding iceberg roses have been interplanted with rosemary this year.  Kate, before delivering her poem, suggested that perhaps next year there could be red poppies too.

Saturday just gone delivered a Thai cooking class at The Village.  I went along to learn how to make a good fish curry, and I think I have the basics now.  Apparently you can make the green curry paste and freeze it in small portions.  One day I'll get around to it.

We also made Crystal Rolls, which I have made before.  I can easily gather the ingredients, but then I have to make the dipping sauces too...

As you can see, it was a convivial event.

Sunday was the Village Market, then off to St David's Cathedral in Hobart to listen to His and Her Majesty singing Joseph Haydn's Seven Last Words.  Beautiful singing, though the topic was rather off season.

Back to the garden:

the view from my bed on a lazy Thursday morning

will there be enough to make a gooseberry pie?

a poppy finally blooms in the studio garden

And, of course, books.

This is a unique book in my experience, tackling breast cancer, tattooing and environmental issues in one read.  And set on the Tasman Peninsula.  How do these writers get to be so clever?

This one strikes home for me too - Griffith / Murrumbidgee home in this instance.  When we left Tasmania to live in Griffith, I was excited at the prospect of learning a Waradjuri language.  This was in 1997 and no such opportunity was available.  This book melds historical and current issues for Aboriginal people with the production of a Waradjuri dictionary.  I think the story is a bit uneven but it enabled me to relive some of our Riverina experience, and its wonderful to know that the language is being regained.

This is a local one.  Maggie Mackellar lives on a farm up the road and, until recently, wrote for Country Style magazine.  I have never met her.  Her book is beautifully presented.  Her writing is simultaneously blunt and liquid.  Like The Octopus and I, the book presents a wildlife / environmental picture, but it is also a manual on sheep farming and its perils.  The title Graft is cleverer than it first appears.

Finally, a page from my school French text, kindly sent to me by my niece.  Tamasin chided me for my irreverence (look carefully) but I detect the hand of that great Francophile classmate, C.K. Butler.